Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Be My Disinfectant
1 reviewThe love's worth the guilt. Definitely. PIKEY one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
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Be My Disinfectant
“Jesus, Mikes. What the hell happened to you?”
Sniffle. Blink. Sniffle.
“Who did that to your face?”
Flinch. Sniffle. Tremble.
“I’m gonna fucking kill them!”
Jump. Cower. Sob.
“I’m sorry, Mymikey, I didn’t mean to shout. I’m not mad at you, okay?”
Sob. Splutter. Panic.
“Mikes? Mikey, breathe! It’s okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you and I’m not gonna let anything hurt you.”
I’m jet-propelled from the murky depths of my black mind by the feeling of an icy hand gliding gently across my forehead, removing the thin layer of sweat with a cautious thumb which then slowly strokes over the tender tundra of my latest black eye before skating down my swollen nose and coming to a rest right next to the split on my lip. I open my tear-doused eyes to see my best friend and protector leaning over me, hiding his near-tangible concern at waking up to his fifteen-year-old boyfriend screaming in his sleep with a soothing smile. Guilt washes over me at the thought; all I ever do is cling to him, make him worry and ruin his t-shirts by drenching them in my blood or tears or a cocktail of the two.
“Shush, Mymikey, it’s all gonna be A-Okay. Calm down, nothing bad is going to happen to you. Know why?” He whispers down to me, his pillowy-soft voice the opposite of what it was earlier today when he found me nearly passed out by the school gates after one of the worst beatings I’ve ever encountered.
He shifts me around in his arms so that my head is on his ribs, right next to the heartbeat that’s always there to remind me that I’m nowhere near as alone as those bullies make me feel. I roll my eyes back to gaze lovingly at his tanned face, at those lips that are always willing to bear-hug my own with their rose-petal cushions, begging him to tell me why because he always knows exactly what to say to pull me out of a panic and into bliss with just a handful of thoughtful syllables.
He really is far too smart to be going out with someone like me.
“It’s because, Mymikey, you’re in my arms right now and you know that I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.” He beams down at me like the moonlight is beaming down on us through his huge bedroom window, pressing a lingering kiss to the milky skin of my forehead, not caring that it’s still sweaty from my nightmare. “You’re far too precious for that. You’re Mymikey and I’m your Peterpanda, after all.”
It’s then that I hear it, with my head buried tightly into the warm skin of his bare chest, the shame in my Pete’s voice. And I instantly know what has forced the needless blemish onto his deep, protective tone; he thinks that it’s his fault that I got beaten up today. Or rather, he thinks that he could have done something to stop it when, in reality, I know that we’d both have just hurt twice as bad as I am now. Not that it really matters to me anymore anyway. I mean, I’m fifteen and I’ve been beaten-up enough times to be able to cope with a few punches.
Apart from today wasn’t just a few punches; it was a group of four of Belleville’s strongest guys, all at least two years older than me and in Pete’s grade, cornering me after school and throwing me to the ground, against the wall, into the sharp corner of a metal locker. Punching me, kicking me, spitting on me, making me bleed and cry and yell until my vision started to cloud over with blinding black spots of dizziness, a sure sign of an oncoming concussion. I know that I only have myself to blame, for being a freak and a fag and a weirdo and for not doing their homework flawlessly for them, but that just makes all of this, the bruises and cuts and aching limbs, hurt all the more.
I somehow managed to limp my way to the school gates, knowing that my boyfriend, my very own Pete Wentz, would be waiting for me because it’s a Friday and I always sleep over at his on a Friday, immediately collapsing into his arms the second that they opened towards me in appalled shock at the state I’d managed to work myself into.
You see, there’s only so much a person’s mind can take, something that both he and Gerard understand completely but not a lot of other people do, thus resulting in a very jumpy, very pathetic human-being. Meaning that I suffer panic attacks at the slightest little thing, panic attacks that can last seconds or minutes, that can be solved by just listening to Pete or Gerard’s steady breathing or has to be dealt with at the hospital if it gets bad enough. Pete, being the charmingly protective boyfriend that he is, was furious when he saw the fresh badges of pain decorating my skin. Not furious with me though, like he should have been because it was ultimately my fault, but with the bullies and with himself. Because I make him feel guilty whenever he can’t protect me like he normally does, I make him feel bad even though he only ever makes me feel amazing and loved and important.
Just like when he took me home, cradled in his arms like a baby, and cleaned me up. He sat me on the edge of his bed which was donning his Batman covers because he knows that those are my favourites and so put them on his bed this morning ready for our sleepover, all the while keeping his omnipotent eyes fixed comfortingly on my own, tear-filled orbs of fragmented vision.
Firstly he wiped off all the blood with the fairy-wing touches of a lukewarm flannel, or rather three of them due to the fact I kept getting them too dirty to be of any great consequence after a few dabs at each gash. He had my chin tilted up delicately with his patient fingers, sending electric sparks through my body at the soothing flame of his velvet touch. After he’d cleaned up most of the blood, which took around twenty minutes, he got to work with making sure that all of the glass was out of the deep gash on my forehead. Because they smashed my glasses against my forehead, leaving me both almost blind and in absolute agony. Thank God I keep a spare pair in my rucksack.
When he was satisfied that none of my cuts were going to get infected, thanks to a stinging bout of burning disinfectant, he put band aids on some and bandages on others, making sure that they were as comfortable as possible. Finally, to combat the torturous aching in just about every part of my body, he had me lay flat out on his bed where he just lay next to me, one arm wrapped tightly around my shaking body and the other snaking all over me so that his hand could rub out the tension in my muscles. All of which made me feel like the luckiest bastard to ever walk on the Earth, even if I did very nearly pass out from pain in order to wind up in that position.
“Mikey, I’m sorry, you know that, right?”
I blink up at him as his rushed, almost choked, words drown out all thoughts of this afternoon’s attack and subsequent close contact with Pete.
Of course I know that he’s sorry; it’s been written on his face since he snapped me out my panic attack at the school gates, something set up by the beating and triggered by his angry yelling at the thought of me getting hurt, even if I do deserve it. I may know that he’s sorry but that doesn’t stop it from stinging me into my brand of guilt and remorse. He shouldn’t be sorry, but I understand why he is; he made this promise to both me and my big brother when we first started dating that he’d always look after me, make sure that I’m safe no matter what.
But sometimes bad things just happen, especially to freaks like me.
“Don’t be, Peterpanda. If anything I’m the sorry one. I honestly didn’t mean to make you worry like that.” I mewl up at him, letting a tear cascade down my cheek at the shame biting at my heart; he really does deserve better.
I expect him to smirk down at me and tell me that it’s alright, that he doesn’t mind. Or maybe finally snap at me and let me know just how annoying I am. Or perhaps just shrug and go back to sleep.
Instead he leans down over me, his toned torso brushing against my own in a way that makes me gasp, and we lock eyes; the two of us coming to the unspoken conclusion that neither will be convinced that we’re not to blame. Something that would be bitter and sting like an electrified barb were it not sealed with a sloppy, all-over-the-place kiss. Because that kiss makes everything alright.
Because it means that we both know that the guilt’s worth it.
After all, the guilt’s only there because we have each other.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading, I hope that this was alright. Sorry if the start was confusing, the italics were meant to be a dream/recollection of what happened when Mikey found Pete after getting beaten up. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
“Jesus, Mikes. What the hell happened to you?”
Sniffle. Blink. Sniffle.
“Who did that to your face?”
Flinch. Sniffle. Tremble.
“I’m gonna fucking kill them!”
Jump. Cower. Sob.
“I’m sorry, Mymikey, I didn’t mean to shout. I’m not mad at you, okay?”
Sob. Splutter. Panic.
“Mikes? Mikey, breathe! It’s okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you and I’m not gonna let anything hurt you.”
I’m jet-propelled from the murky depths of my black mind by the feeling of an icy hand gliding gently across my forehead, removing the thin layer of sweat with a cautious thumb which then slowly strokes over the tender tundra of my latest black eye before skating down my swollen nose and coming to a rest right next to the split on my lip. I open my tear-doused eyes to see my best friend and protector leaning over me, hiding his near-tangible concern at waking up to his fifteen-year-old boyfriend screaming in his sleep with a soothing smile. Guilt washes over me at the thought; all I ever do is cling to him, make him worry and ruin his t-shirts by drenching them in my blood or tears or a cocktail of the two.
“Shush, Mymikey, it’s all gonna be A-Okay. Calm down, nothing bad is going to happen to you. Know why?” He whispers down to me, his pillowy-soft voice the opposite of what it was earlier today when he found me nearly passed out by the school gates after one of the worst beatings I’ve ever encountered.
He shifts me around in his arms so that my head is on his ribs, right next to the heartbeat that’s always there to remind me that I’m nowhere near as alone as those bullies make me feel. I roll my eyes back to gaze lovingly at his tanned face, at those lips that are always willing to bear-hug my own with their rose-petal cushions, begging him to tell me why because he always knows exactly what to say to pull me out of a panic and into bliss with just a handful of thoughtful syllables.
He really is far too smart to be going out with someone like me.
“It’s because, Mymikey, you’re in my arms right now and you know that I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.” He beams down at me like the moonlight is beaming down on us through his huge bedroom window, pressing a lingering kiss to the milky skin of my forehead, not caring that it’s still sweaty from my nightmare. “You’re far too precious for that. You’re Mymikey and I’m your Peterpanda, after all.”
It’s then that I hear it, with my head buried tightly into the warm skin of his bare chest, the shame in my Pete’s voice. And I instantly know what has forced the needless blemish onto his deep, protective tone; he thinks that it’s his fault that I got beaten up today. Or rather, he thinks that he could have done something to stop it when, in reality, I know that we’d both have just hurt twice as bad as I am now. Not that it really matters to me anymore anyway. I mean, I’m fifteen and I’ve been beaten-up enough times to be able to cope with a few punches.
Apart from today wasn’t just a few punches; it was a group of four of Belleville’s strongest guys, all at least two years older than me and in Pete’s grade, cornering me after school and throwing me to the ground, against the wall, into the sharp corner of a metal locker. Punching me, kicking me, spitting on me, making me bleed and cry and yell until my vision started to cloud over with blinding black spots of dizziness, a sure sign of an oncoming concussion. I know that I only have myself to blame, for being a freak and a fag and a weirdo and for not doing their homework flawlessly for them, but that just makes all of this, the bruises and cuts and aching limbs, hurt all the more.
I somehow managed to limp my way to the school gates, knowing that my boyfriend, my very own Pete Wentz, would be waiting for me because it’s a Friday and I always sleep over at his on a Friday, immediately collapsing into his arms the second that they opened towards me in appalled shock at the state I’d managed to work myself into.
You see, there’s only so much a person’s mind can take, something that both he and Gerard understand completely but not a lot of other people do, thus resulting in a very jumpy, very pathetic human-being. Meaning that I suffer panic attacks at the slightest little thing, panic attacks that can last seconds or minutes, that can be solved by just listening to Pete or Gerard’s steady breathing or has to be dealt with at the hospital if it gets bad enough. Pete, being the charmingly protective boyfriend that he is, was furious when he saw the fresh badges of pain decorating my skin. Not furious with me though, like he should have been because it was ultimately my fault, but with the bullies and with himself. Because I make him feel guilty whenever he can’t protect me like he normally does, I make him feel bad even though he only ever makes me feel amazing and loved and important.
Just like when he took me home, cradled in his arms like a baby, and cleaned me up. He sat me on the edge of his bed which was donning his Batman covers because he knows that those are my favourites and so put them on his bed this morning ready for our sleepover, all the while keeping his omnipotent eyes fixed comfortingly on my own, tear-filled orbs of fragmented vision.
Firstly he wiped off all the blood with the fairy-wing touches of a lukewarm flannel, or rather three of them due to the fact I kept getting them too dirty to be of any great consequence after a few dabs at each gash. He had my chin tilted up delicately with his patient fingers, sending electric sparks through my body at the soothing flame of his velvet touch. After he’d cleaned up most of the blood, which took around twenty minutes, he got to work with making sure that all of the glass was out of the deep gash on my forehead. Because they smashed my glasses against my forehead, leaving me both almost blind and in absolute agony. Thank God I keep a spare pair in my rucksack.
When he was satisfied that none of my cuts were going to get infected, thanks to a stinging bout of burning disinfectant, he put band aids on some and bandages on others, making sure that they were as comfortable as possible. Finally, to combat the torturous aching in just about every part of my body, he had me lay flat out on his bed where he just lay next to me, one arm wrapped tightly around my shaking body and the other snaking all over me so that his hand could rub out the tension in my muscles. All of which made me feel like the luckiest bastard to ever walk on the Earth, even if I did very nearly pass out from pain in order to wind up in that position.
“Mikey, I’m sorry, you know that, right?”
I blink up at him as his rushed, almost choked, words drown out all thoughts of this afternoon’s attack and subsequent close contact with Pete.
Of course I know that he’s sorry; it’s been written on his face since he snapped me out my panic attack at the school gates, something set up by the beating and triggered by his angry yelling at the thought of me getting hurt, even if I do deserve it. I may know that he’s sorry but that doesn’t stop it from stinging me into my brand of guilt and remorse. He shouldn’t be sorry, but I understand why he is; he made this promise to both me and my big brother when we first started dating that he’d always look after me, make sure that I’m safe no matter what.
But sometimes bad things just happen, especially to freaks like me.
“Don’t be, Peterpanda. If anything I’m the sorry one. I honestly didn’t mean to make you worry like that.” I mewl up at him, letting a tear cascade down my cheek at the shame biting at my heart; he really does deserve better.
I expect him to smirk down at me and tell me that it’s alright, that he doesn’t mind. Or maybe finally snap at me and let me know just how annoying I am. Or perhaps just shrug and go back to sleep.
Instead he leans down over me, his toned torso brushing against my own in a way that makes me gasp, and we lock eyes; the two of us coming to the unspoken conclusion that neither will be convinced that we’re not to blame. Something that would be bitter and sting like an electrified barb were it not sealed with a sloppy, all-over-the-place kiss. Because that kiss makes everything alright.
Because it means that we both know that the guilt’s worth it.
After all, the guilt’s only there because we have each other.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading, I hope that this was alright. Sorry if the start was confusing, the italics were meant to be a dream/recollection of what happened when Mikey found Pete after getting beaten up. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
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